as, and his own inclinations. He was
by no means indifferent to such attraction. But Marie Melmotte, from
that point of view, was nothing to him. Such prettiness as belonged to
her came from the brightness of her youth, and from a modest shy
demeanour joined to an incipient aspiration for the enjoyment of
something in the world which should be her own. There was, too,
arising within her bosom a struggle to be something in the world, an
idea that she, too, could say something, and have thoughts of her own,
if only she had some friend near her whom she need not fear. Though
still shy, she was always resolving that she would abandon her
shyness, and already had thoughts of her own as to the perfectly open
confidence which should exist between two lovers. When alone--and she
was much alone--she would build castles in the air, which were bright
with art and love, rather than with gems and gold. The books she read,
poor though they generally were, left something bright on her
imagination. She fancied to herself brilliant conversations in which
she bore a bright part, though in real life she had hitherto hardly
talked to any one since she was a child. Sir Felix Carbury, she knew,
had made her an offer. She knew also, or thought that she knew, that
she loved the man. And now she was with him alone! Now surely had come
the time in which some one of her castles in the air might be found to
be built of real materials.

'You know why I have come down here?' he said.

'To see your cousin.'

'No, indeed. I'm not particularly fond of my cousin, who is a
methodical stiff-necked old bachelor,--as cross as the mischief.'

'How disagreeable!'

'Yes; he is disagreeable. I didn't come down to see him, I can tell
you. But when I heard that you were going to be here with the
Longestaffes, I determined to come at once. I wonder whether you are
glad to see me?'

'I don't know,' said Marie, who could not at once find that brilliancy
of words with which her imagination supplied her readily enough in her
solitude.

'Do you remember what you said to me that evening at my mother's?'

'Did I say anything? I don't remember anything particular.'

'Do you not? Then I fear you can't think very much of me.' He paused
as though he supposed that she would drop into his mouth like a
cherry. 'I thought you told me that you would love me.'

'Did I?'

'Did you not?'

'I don't know what I said. Perhaps if I said that, I didn't mean it.'

'Am I